


Incluso Hay Muerte en Texas

by Estel



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Día de los Muertos | Day of the Dead, Español | Spanish, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Texas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estel/pseuds/Estel
Summary: After returning to civilian life in Texas, Javier Peña celebratesDia de los Muertoswith his family for the first time in over a decade.
Kudos: 21





	Incluso Hay Muerte en Texas

**Author's Note:**

> I grew up in an area filled with Hispanic cultural representation, but I myself am not Latinx. I tell this story out of love for the story of Javier Peña, Narcos, and as a love letter to those who have shared their culture with me.
> 
> The conversational Spanish translations were done by my friend Mel, to whom I owe many thanks both for translating and just for being a dear friend.
> 
> I welcome any and all constructive feedback/critiques of any of my works, but I especially want to make people feel welcome to share their feedback on this one.
> 
> Title Translation: Inclusio Hay Muerte en Texas - There is Even Death in Texas

_Las Mulas Borrachas_ played “Mexico Lindo Y Querido” as Flores Avenue swarmed with the colorful street fair that spilled out from the main celebration at the refurbished El Mercado building. They’d played it once already and weren’t going to let up on the popular song as revelers wailed along under the setting Texas sun as the shadows of the downtown buildings revealed pools of lantern lights created by the decorations that lined the street.

At one of the many covered picnic tables that had been placed along the sidewalk for people to gather and eat at, Javier Peña sat, drinking a Tecate alone amid the revelry. The table was strewn with signs of absent revelers - paper plates, napkins, and some leftover tamales and colorful _conchas_ , as well as a few other empty beer cans. His family had gone to watch a _Folklorico_ troupe before they were imminently going to depart to join the traffic jam headed to the cemetery in the middle of town.

There was a tame familiarity to it all that had been absent from Javier’s life for the past few years. Colombian _Dia de Los Muertos_ was not that different, but for a country ravaged by the narco traffickers, there were a lot more loved ones who needed visiting and offerings. A lot more freshly dead on their journey for the first time.

Additionally, the border town of Laredo always managed to put a Texan spin on just about everything. The traditional decor also included accents of cowboy boots, hats, and spurs as well as the seemingly required use of the Lone Star flag. Even the dead in Laredo were still Texans, after all.

It was a far cry from those living in the squalor of Medellin and much more American than anything in Bogata. The lone Mexican-American didn’t really have much desire to insert himself into the local take on the day of remembrance and wasn’t exactly in the mood for the decade and change of his tenure in the country.

The hiatus he’d taken from the traditional celebration that was a fixture of his youth brought him back to it with a heavier heart. He’d seen easily a thousand percent more death than he had the last time he’d been in town for any of this and not only was he a different man, but Laredo was a different town. They’d rebuilt major parts of downtown in his absence, restoring buildings he remembered being run-down turn-of-the-century derelicts into the beautiful new crown of the community he sat beside.

As he sipped the last of his beer, the music changed to “Los Machetes” as the nearby crowd cheered and undoubtedly the local _Folklorico_ dance troupe began their routine. He knew the gist of how that all went, the same way he knew the rhythm of the rest of the evening: his family would return and clean up the remnants of their dinner before piling into the trucks they rode into town. Still without his own truck, Javi would join his father in the same old truck he’d ridden in the last time he’d made this trek. They’d sit quietly in the traffic and park nearly as far away from the Calvary Cemetery as where he sat now. There would be candles and flowers laid at his mother’s grave. His father would remain even more quiet than usual.

It all seemed too normal. Logic reminded him he didn’t need to worry about being spotted by a lookout or a _sicario_. He didn’t need to hold his Baretta against his chest to ride to the cemetery. There wasn’t a bomb waiting under his dad’s truck.

The absence of all that violence made everything else seem so mundane. When his mother had passed, this was the most sacred day in their house, but that boy that shouldered extra responsibility, who made every choice to support his family until they were able to stand on their own, died somewhere in Colombia chasing Escobar. He drowned in the blood and went up in the smoke.

Before the Mariachis finished their set, Chucho Peña rejoined his son with a fresh pair of beers, interrupting the dark spiral that was starting to take Javier by popping open both new drinks. The older Peña settled onto the bench opposite his son, seemingly able to read his mind.

“You don’t have to stay here.”

The complex commentary about duty to _la familia_ as well as not being an ungrateful shit was conveyed in one quirked eyebrow from Javi as he took the first sip off of the fresh pale lager.

Chucho shook his head. After all these years, he was still the same stubborn young man he remembered. “ _A fuerza, ni los zapatos entran, mijo._ ” (You can’t force your shoes to fit, son.)

“ _Lo sé_ ,” (I know.) Javi muttered, feeling the full guilt of being so transparent. “ _Pero necesito estar aquí_.” (But I need to be here.)

“ _Hijo, no_ ,” (You don’t.) his father corrected him promptly, anticipating the reply. “ _Tómese el tiempo que necesita para ser parte de la vida, Javier_.” (Take the time you need to be part of life, Javier.)

Another long drink prolonged the younger Peña’s protest. The music was swelling to an end followed by clapping. The inevitable next leg of the long day’s celebrations was coming if he didn’t stop it. He glanced down into his beer and sighed. Again, Chucho was right.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll meet you there.”

His father permitted it with just a nod. He was willing to give his son the space he needed to deal with the murky feelings that plagued him, even on a day as important as today.

Before anyone could join them, Javi escaped down the darkening street. The air was sweet with baked treats and flowers. People laughed and danced in the street as music drifted in the air from all around.

His mind filled danger in the absence of a threat. The smoke billowing from bustling restaurants was tainted by the ghost of labs tucked among the _comunas_. Cars with the windows rolled down were filled with _sicarios_ instead of eager families. Even the flickering candles on large _ofrendas_ were transformed into fires covering up the sins of the traffickers.

As the knot grew in his chest, he threw back the last of his beer and stopped to throw away the can. His heart raced and it took all his focus to find reality again in his anxiety.

There were no labs or _sicarios_ or burning buildings. The songs wandering through the twilight belonged to the joyful dead of Laredo, not the casualties of Colombia that lingered behind his eyes. Javi took a deep breath, focusing on the dry, Texas air.

Tonight was his chance to be a part of his family that he’d run so far from. There was little expectation and just a desire to get to know the man he’d become. His father had been patient and the rest would follow.

It was a good night to let the dead walk free instead of Peña carrying them everywhere.


End file.
